Little Turds

Whenever my daughter calls me at work I assume she’s calling to complain about her brother. Has he devoured the last piece of Mexican bread or wolfed her bag of potato chips as well as his own? Has he called her an unsavory name? Entered her room without her express permission? No. It was a matter of plumbing. In between her sobs I gathered that she and one of her school friends had clogged the toilet and my daughter was afraid that the entire apartment would soon be under water; turds were rising to the rim and threatening to spill over.

I told my daughter to take a deep breath and calm down. I explained where to find the plunger and how to use it. “Call me back,” I said. My phone rang within thirty seconds. “I can’t do it,” my daughter wailed. “It’s gross and germy. Can you come home?” “Look,” I said, “this kind of thing happens and you have to deal with it. There’s a pair of rubber gloves under the sink in the kitchen. Put them on. Get some paper towels. Try the plunger again. You can do this, kid.”

“Noooo, I caaaan’t,” my daughter said, sobbing. “You don’t understaaaaaand! It’s disgustinnnnng. You have to come home now! Why is this happening?”

Is this how it is with all 12-year-old girls? When life slings a minor curve ball at them is their default option to freak out, burst into tears and hysterics? Are all of them bundles of raw, exposed nerves? I told my daughter to give the plunger another try. I might as well have suggested that she pull her own fingernails out with a pair of pliers. “I have to pee,” she finally admitted. “How can I pee with the toilet like this?”

“Go in the backyard,” I said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Pretend you’re camping in the woods or that there’s been a major earthquake.”

“Dad, you’re not helping. I can’t pee in the backyard; it’s disgusting and unsanitary. You have to come home right away! This is the worst day of my life!”

At this point I should have shut my computer down, locked the office and gone home, but I made the cardinal mistake of asking my daughter if this really was the worst day of her very young life -- and if it was -- didn’t she consider herself fortunate only to be confronted with a clogged toilet and a full bladder? In many parts of the world girls her age were dodging bullets, toiling in factories, and running from sex slavers and kidnappers…

“I don’t need one of your stupid lectures, dad, I need to PEE!”

I could see my wife’s face, the way she shakes her head in disbelief when I make what she considers a parenting blunder, say or do the wrong thing at the wrong time, fail to perceive what’s really happening with our children, the emotional need lurking behind their words. Why couldn’t I see that the clogged toilet wasn’t the real problem but only a symptom of a larger malaise? It’s the subtext, stupid man.

I checked out of the office and drove home. My daughter and her friend were sitting at the kitchen table watching You Tube videos on my daughter’s laptop. The table was strewn with textbooks, papers, pencils, cups, gum wrappers, banana peels, orange peels and apple cores; the sink was full of unwashed dishes. The apartment wasn’t flooded; my daughter looked no worse for wear. I had the sense not to ask if she had found the nerve to pee in the back yard. The toilet was still clogged with paper and coffee-colored water. I rolled up my sleeves and started in with the plunger, clearing the clog on the third try.